


wicked and wild wind

by chasingforeverandaday



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bickering, Coup d'état, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Smut, and life means Gendry Waters, because Arya Stark chose life damnit, not Dany friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-03-19 12:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18969478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingforeverandaday/pseuds/chasingforeverandaday
Summary: Robert Baratheon tore apart the realm seeking the love of a Stark woman who would never choose him. His son forged it back together with a fury filled she-wolf standing at his side, fiery heart and well worn hammer working as one.or: Arya Stark is a force to be reckoned with. Arya Baratheon is a force of nature.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So that finale huh?
> 
> This diverges from canon (for the most part) just about when 8x05 ends with Arya riding off on her white horse. I'm taking ideas from 8x06 for plot, but trust me when I say the plot will be quite different. The prologue ended up as a very narrative piece, but expect future chapters to have an actual POV. And be less cryptic (hopefully). The story will be very Arya and Gendry heavy, but involves more political machinations in the wake of the burning of KL. Much as I do love Dany as a character, she is definitely a villain here, so please be aware of that.
> 
> Title comes from "Viva la Vida" by Coldplay, and this work has not been betaed. Rating and warnings subject to change.

No one had seen the younger Stark daughter in months, not since she disappeared from the icy halls of Winterfell days after slaying the Night King. There had been whispers of a girl on a horse riding through the Dragon Queen’s camp before the attack  _ (the sack, the massacre, the day hell rained down on King’s Landing from the back of a dragon) _ , but those were merely whispers, unsubstantiated at best, strange rumors of a wildling child and the Hound heading into the city, never to be seen again once the walls came crumbling down. 

The Northmen say that Jon Snow had gone mad when he’d heard talk of his little sister caught in the crossfire of the Dragon Queen’s fiery revenge. He’d received a raven from the Lady Sansa, demanding he find their sister, that he send her home, claiming she’d followed after him, that she’d planned to kill the Mad Lion Queen. Lord Davos had done his best to calm his once sworn king, but the news of Arya Stark’s assumed death was simply was too much for Jon’s tenuous hold on his rage. It was said that he nearly killed his beloved queen in his grief, only stopped by her loyal Unsullied guard. The former King in the North awaited judgement in what was left of the Black Cells, accompanied by the Lannister brothers for treason against the throne. He expected to be joined by familiar faces before his time was up.

Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,  _ the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons _ , called for a grand trial, witnessed by all the high lords of Westeros. All those who arrived would be required to bend the knee or face her wrath. All those who did not would be burnt. There was a dragon in King’s Landing again, and she would be obeyed.

It would be a reckoning of “Fire and Blood” indeed. The Queen was determined to rule this hostile land, full of those she knew opposed her very existence. Sansa Stark and all her followers, the Mad Queen Cersei and her Lannister armies, nothing was going to stop the reclamation of her birthright, not even the man she thought she loved. The Iron Throne was hers after years of dreaming and scheming, and it was a victory as cold as the metal at her back. To sit in her father’s chair had cost her dearly, and she would make all those responsible pay for the pain she had gone through ten times over, until they were begging for death. Lost in a haze of righteous vengeance, all the measured voices of her counsel dead or led astray, Daenerys Targaryen miscalculated. Badly.

Because little did the Queen know, one of the lords whose loyalty she was most secure in (for after all, she had generously gifted him with his very name and titles rather than kill him for looking just a bit too much like his father), had a rather dangerous secret. A secret that he would have taken to his grave, had he died in the frozen wastes of the North. For you see, he was a man of incredible loyalty… just not to her. Gendry Waters had loved one woman, one person really, in his life, and suddenly becoming Gendry Baratheon did not change that defining trait of his existence. Daenerys had no way of knowing he would betray her, that he would do anything for the girl he called his lady, for there was only one person left alive who knew even half of the history between the Baratheon Bull and the Bringer of the Dawn, and queens don’t take counsel from mere baker boys.

_ Had he been asked, Thoros would have mentioned how they fought side by side, always protecting each other, how selling the boy years ago had mercilessly torn two hearts in half in the name of the Lord of Light.  _

_ Had he been asked, Lord Beric Dondarrion would muse that for those two to find one another after so many years could only be the work of fate, of destiny, of a bond far stronger for all the years and distance caught in between.  _

_ Had he been asked, the Hound would have grunted and rolled his eyes. He had seen the way the boy looked for the girl, the source of all the happiness in his gaze, and had heard the girl whisper the boy’s name in her sleep, love on her lips and a small smile on her face. He knew, and he pulled her from the open arms of death to fall back into the warm embrace of life (her smith). _

To stand before that pair was to court death. Their love was their defiance, their bond was their strength. They knew each other inside and out, loved each other for every flaw and scar, every experience they shared and those they did not. They were fighters, not soldiers. They were an assassin and her smith, a bastard and his lady. A man and a woman, united against she that would destroy a kingdom where even Death itself had not succeeded. 

Robert Baratheon tore apart the realm seeking the love of a Stark woman who would never choose him. His son forged it back together with a fury filled she-wolf standing at his side, fiery heart and well worn hammer working as one.


	2. somewhere south of hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya gets a little introspective while wandering the woods following the destruction of King's Landing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took forever with updating! In my defense I've had a slightly insane month (I got into the school I wanted and my brain melted from sheer relief) (and work has been busy), but I did not intend for this story to go so long without a new chapter. Hopefully, the next one will be along much faster, seeing as I actually cut this one into two parts to a)make it flow better and b)get something out, because a big section of the next one still needs major edits. Anyways, sorry this took so long! And yes, I use a lot of italics, I know.
> 
> Note: I am including parts of Arya's book characterization and some of the events that occurred during her time with the Brotherhood (hello Acorn Hall), because Arya is not a murder bot; just a fair warning

Stubbornly clinging to the back of the white mare she found wandering the streets, Arya had charged out of the city, thinking only of escaping the chaos raining down around her. She rode south for hours in the shelter of the ancient trees, stopping only once at a stream to scrub the grime from her face and arms, watching as the gray, dusty film was replaced by red, raw skin.

She knows she should go north, she should turn back to Winterfell, or at least back to the camp where her brother and his men are, but there is something drawing her in a different direction. She’d made it out alive for a reason, and she will follow the pull of instinct in her gut that kept her safe in the blazing streets of the capitol wherever it may take her. So Arya climbs back onto her horse and keeps to her path, mindful of the destruction she’s left far behind. Alone but for her own thoughts, all Arya can think of are the people she carries in her heart.

 _Father, Mother, Robb, Rickon_. All gone, lost somewhere she cannot follow, somewhere she refuses to follow, not yet, not today.

 _Sandor_ , almost certainly dead in the crumbling Red Keep, and gods she hopes he took his brother with him and found some sense of peace. He’s the reason she made it back out of there, after the madness of revenge had taken over and all she could see in front of her was death. Sandor knew she had so much to live for, the only one who had any idea that she had more to come back to then just her siblings. But, oh, her siblings…

 _Bran_ , staring out into the Godswood, searching for answers to the questions only he could hear and seeing into murky futures only he could see. No longer her adventurous little brother, no longer even truly her brother at all if the creature inhabiting his body is to be believed.

 _Sansa,_ holding the North together through sheer force of will and the loyalty of lords who see her spine of unbending steel and skin of unbroken ivory. Her lady sister, once the girl she despised most in the world, jealous of their mother’s love; now one of her closest allies and staunchest supporters. She might be safe for now, far away from the ashes and smoke, but she’s painted a target on herself with the way she provokes the queen’s ire, and there is only so much Brienne of Tarth’s sword can protect her from.

 _Jon_ , her favorite brother, her best brother, who she can barely recognize under his devotion to his bloody dragon queen. He’s so different from the boy she grew up with, the one who never made her feel less than she was as a girl; but they’ve both looked death in the eyes and made it home, and that’s an experience she knows will change anyone.

The biggest difference between them is that while Jon has become enraptured by a woman hell bent on conquering the Iron Throne, she has found someone who may not understand precisely what she went through during their years apart, but loves her anyway, bloody claws and all.

Because she has her Gendry. _Gendry,_  who she left laying in his cot off the main forge, completely dead to the world after a night spent fixing what she almost broke when she’d turned down his proposal. She loved him, with a fierceness that terrified her, but Arya had to finish her list before she could even dream of the future they’d whispered into the quiet stillness of their refuge from duties and destinies, queens and lordships, siblings and propriety.

A home to share, vows in front of Winterfell’s heart tree… children, if she could even have them, with storm filled eyes and soot dark hair. Things that a young Arya Stark of Winterfell had once given up on ever having, but falling in love with her bull-headed bastard of a blacksmith had changed her, helped her see that just because she wasn’t Sansa didn’t mean she couldn’t want the same things. He would be her family and she would be his lady, Seven Hells to anyone that told them otherwise. All they needed was time together, and it would work itself out; it had to. The world owed them that much after the horror they’d been through.

She’d promised to come back, to him, to them, to all those still in Winterfell, but she can feel in her bones that she is where she needs to be. If she can make this right, can stop the Mad Queen before she turns on them completely, Arya thinks her loved ones will forgive her for the delay in her return.

In any case, she needs to get away from the city, and south is a direction no one will expect her to be taking, since Starks were known for not lasting terribly long in the South. Arya is a killer, yes, but even moreso she is a survivor, and if she can survive Harrenhal and the Twins and the Faceless Men, then Arya Stark can and will survive whatever Daenerys Targaryen decides to throw her way. There is too much at stake for her not to. So she carries on, moving ever farther from Winterfell and all its residents.

And then hours later she sees Gendry not twenty feet away from her, slumped against an oak tree with a horse grazing nearby. He isn’t covered in ash or blood, a clear sign he’d managed to avoid the carnage that she’d barely escaped from. He’s alone, gazing into the darkness of the surrounding forest, an emotion she can’t read written across his face. Sliding off her own surely exhausted horse, Arya walks towards him, not bothering to quiet her footsteps. When a twig cracks beneath her foot, his head snaps up, catching her watery gaze with his own, her name a gasping cry into the evening air.

Suddenly he’s right in front of her, love shining through the wetness in his eyes. Gendry stops just in front of her, hands reaching out then stopping, a hair away from her skin. They stand inches apart, not daring to shatter the perfect vision in front of themselves. In the end, her impatience wins out as Arya throws herself into his arms and plunders his mouth for the first time in nearly a month.


	3. beneath an old oak tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt reunion occurs, a bit of insight into Gendry's past month, a question is asked, and I can't stick to a verb tense to save my life. Oh, and maybe some smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a while, sorry to anyone still reading this! I'm bad at updates, I know, but I've also been working on an Atonement AU for months, and I cannot get the middle bit to cooperate. Not going to make any promises on when the next bit will be out, because the semester has started and I'm not sure how much I'll be writing.
> 
> Anyways, reviews, comments, or any reactions at all are always welcome below. And as always, I own nothing.

It seems to take him a moment to respond, but when Gendry kisses her he is desperation personified, as if he can’t truly believe she is real and in front of him, that his lips are touching hers. She is surrounded by him in all the best ways, Gendry is everything she knows and feels and tastes. He gathers her closer in his arms and backs her against one of the trees in this small clearing, lifting her legs to wrap around his waist. It’s an onslaught of sensation, so very welcome in the numbness that had overtaken her since she escaped the city.

Overwhelmed, she freezes, because she’d half believed him to be a head injury induced hallucination; because Arya Stark is not someone who good things happen to, not anymore. She cannot have found the man she loves, thousands of miles from where he was supposed to be, yet somehow still safe and sound far from the horrors of King’s Landing. That he had forgiven her for nearly leaving him and trampling over his heart in her haste to kill Cersei had been a miracle, but his presence in these woods feels like a gift from the gods.

When he starts to pull away in doubt after her less than enthusiastic response, she hastily surges upward, nearly knocking him backwards in her eagerness to feel him, sturdy as steel against her trembling body. Their teeth clash together as they collide none too gently before Gendry softens the kiss, silent tears streaming down both of their faces.

His hands come up to frame her face, one brushing away the tracks on her cheek while the other quickly burrows into the messy braid she’d pulled her hair into. Gendry’s lips are warm and insistent on hers, drawing her deeper and deeper into his mouth until she cannot tell where he starts and she begins. For a moment or two, he is her entire world and nothing else matters, not the burning of King’s Landing, not the Mad Queen and her dragon that caused it. All she knows is that they have survived and she has a chance to live and love him and be truly happy for the first time since she left home years ago.

With great reluctance, they seperate, still wrapped up in each other and the giddiness of their reunion. Arya rests her head against his chest, drinking in the sensation of having Gendry with her once more. Moments, minutes, hours could have passed before she finally looks back up to his face, catching his eyes with hers. Pressing another soft kiss to his mouth, she murmurs, “How are you here, how did you find me? I thought...” 

“That I would still be in Winterfell?” Arya nods against his chest and he sighs. “Aye, well, it’s been an interesting month.”

She closes her eyes and nuzzles further into his embrace as he tells her of the events in Winterfell after she had left. Her ear rests against his steady heart as he stutters over the less than subtle threats of the Dragon Queen that had coerced him to head south with the army, despite his intentions to stay and help rebuild Arya’s home, as they’d discussed. When he mentions how Daenerys had begun to soften and then pay particular attention to him on the road south, asking him to sit with her for dinner, requesting he sit in on strategy meetings for the upcoming siege, ignoring Jon the farther South they’d traveled, something clicks in her mind. Once he’s finished, explaining how he was able to leave the war camp in the night after telling her brother he was headed to Storm’s End, he pulls back a bit to look down at her. Blue eyes meet gray as Arya takes in his nervous expression and has to bite back the sarcastic comment on the tip of her tongue, choosing to instead peck his lips lightly.  

Well, she held it in for a moment. “You do know the queen was trying to seduce you, right?” The dumbstruck confusion on his face is enough to make her laugh, harder than she has in what feels like years. 

“Arry, no.” 

“She’s given you a name, title, castle; tried to woo you with her rich foods and rewards.” Placing a fluttering hand to her forehead, she leans back, knowing he will hold her upright. “Why Lord Gendry, did the fair maiden try to swoon into your burly blacksmith arms?” The scowl he gives her mimed performance is enough to send her into another fit of laughter, especially when he manhandles her back upwards, gripping her in a way that sends shivers up Arya’s spine. 

Almost growling, the glare he aims at her does nothing to subdue her mirth. “I’ll have no one but you, Arya Stark, and I think you well know that.”

“Oh do I?” Cocking an eyebrow at him, she waited, hoping he would take the hint she’d thrown out. Of course, her silly bull would never take to the subtleties of double talk and implications, no he was a man of blunt words and actions. So she happily laid down her final card. “Isn’t there a certain question you should be asking me then?” Eyes wide, he made to kneel before she holds both hands to his cheeks, keeping him close. 

“Marry me Arya? Be my family, be my wife.” Gendry paused to take a breath, hugging her against him as he continues in a rush before she can answer. “In Winterfell, we talked about what would happen _after,_  and well, maybe the war isn’t over yet, but maybe it will never be over. We’re fighters, the both of us, and we may never find the moment of peace we’re waiting for. So marry me Arya Stark, my Arya, my lady, because I love you, and I want to be able to call you mine and know that I’m yours in every way that matters.” 

“Yes,” she whispers into his chest. Because she has long since realized her previous answer hadn’t truly been _no,_ it had been _not yet._ And he is right. They know not what tomorrow might bring, but they are together and that is a precious gift she will not forsake twice. Beaming, she repeats herself more loudly, for he hasn’t moved an inch, doesn’t seem to have heard her. She reaches for his chin, causing his disbelieving eyes to meet hers as a wide grin made its way across her face. “Gendry, yes!” 

They meet in the middle, crashing back together like the tide against the shore. Her arms tightly clasped around his neck, hands scrabbling for purchase against his back and in his shorn hair, still too short to truly grasp. His arms are bands of iron around her waist as he pulled her off the ground in excitement, spinning in a circle completely drunk on love.

Tearing her mouth away from their frantic kisses once he sets her down, she leans her forehead against his as she catches the breath he’s stolen straight from her lungs. Tilting in, just a bit, their noses rub against each other, and she giggled quietly, unable to fathom how she could possibly be this lucky. Grinning, she glances under her eyelashes into his blue eyes, only to be slammed with lust as his dark, dark irises meet her own. Her blood catches on fire, and she pounces again, fingers trying to tear the laces on his tunic open.

They may be wearing less layers this far south, but their hands are clumsy and unfocused, so preoccupied with each other they can barely will themselves to break away longer than it takes to get their shirts over their heads.

He becomes distracted by her breasts before he can manage to get either pair of their pants off, but when he begins to suck and kiss and bite at them, she finds it within herself to magnanimously allow for the delay. Pinned against the tree, Arya can do little more than writhe in pleasure as he methodically works his way across her skin. For the first time, she doesn’t even have to think of being quiet, of being worried that someone will interrupt them in the forge or the storeroom; that someone will take offense to Lady Arya of Winterfell fucking the blacksmith. There is no one to hear her moaning and keening into the evening air as Gendry’s lips leave a fiery trail down her chest. 

He doesn’t pay her scars from the Waif any mind, which she appreciates; they are of her past, and he is her future. Instead, he seems to be cataloguing every twitch and sigh that escapes her, focusing on doing everything possible to make her lose her mind. Arya barely notices as he unties her trousers and kneels, pulling them down her legs until they meet her boots, too distracted by his tongue on her nipple. It’s only when he draws back with a furrowed brow  that she realizes what the problem is, quickly reaching down to twist out of the constricting garments. Once she is free, Gendry immediately pushes her to lean back against the tree, hands spanning the entirety of her slim waist as he kisses her belly. The contrast of the rubbing, rough bark on her bruised back and his warm mouth working its way down between her legs is too much and she gasps, half pain and half pleasure, when Gendry bites lightly along the inside of her thigh.

He’s teasing her, and while she hopes they have many, many years together to explore each other in great detail, right now she just wants him, pure and simple; patience has never exactly been her strong suit. Tugging on his short hair, she directs him back to her center. Gendry sends her a mischievous glance before he sucks her clit between his teeth and sets every nerve in her body alight with wildfire. Head thrown back, she arches into his mouth, feet barely touching the ground anymore as he takes more and more of her weight.

What a picture the two of them must make here in the forest, loving each other desperately, no featherbed in sight. One arm scrabbling above her for purchase, while the other scrapes through his scalp. Her left foot up on the tips of her toes, her right looped lightly over Gendry’s sturdy shoulder. He on his knees in front of her, smoldering desire blazing in his eyes as he draws her over the edge into paradise, catching her as she falls gasping into his arms, folded nearly in half. She pushes away throbbing pain echoing through her body, choosing instead to curl her arms around his head again. Thumbing at his stubble covered chin as she brings him in close, she kisses the man she loves with all her heart passionately, every piece of raw devotion and overwhelming love on display for the only person she will gladly let into every deep and dark corner of her soul.

They shift again, as Gendry ever so slowly stood back up, grinding his hardness into her stomach. Blindly fumbling with the strings holding his pants together, she groans in frustration and throws up her hands as he huffs a laugh at her and quickly frees himself. Stroking him quickly, she leans back up on her tiptoes to kiss him, whispering her love against still wet lips. They share a lewd grin, and then his hand shoots down and yanks her leg up around his waist. Something in her thigh _pulls_ , an aching pain shooting through her body. Arya hisses, barely more than a breath, but this time he freezes, alarm crossing his face instead of the beautiful expression of carefree lust he’d just been sporting. When she tries to bring his face back to hers, tries to coax him back to wanton excitement of only a moment ago, he only looks at her with concern.

“Arya, are you hurt?” Her stubborn bull ignores all her protests and sets her down like she’s a delicate maiden afraid of her own shadow, hands tracing along her sides with care. The aches and pains she’d managed to take her mind off of bloom back to life at his touch, but she refuses to blink, still intent on finishing what they had started. But her Gendry, he looks as if he is about to explode from panic. “Did I hurt you?”

Intertwining their fingers, she kisses his knuckles before placing his hands firmly on her hips. “Gendry, you could never hurt me! I’m just a little bruised, which tends to be what happens when what feels like half the fucking city falls on top of you.” 

Even now, though his face is hesitant, he’s started to softly skim up and down her sides, from her breast to arse, leaving goose bumps in the wake of his fingers. She sighs and leans in with closed eyes, expecting him to meet her once more. When he doesn’t, Arya cracks one eye open to glare at his sheepish expression. 

“Gendry bloody Baratheon, you better touch me right now or so help me gods I will…” Her half-hearted tirade is cut off with a gentle kiss, a strategy she is only a tiny bit annoyed at him for employing. She melts into him, arms braced on his chest as he holds her to him, his beautiful hands covering her entire back. Together, they kneel among the roots of the oak, lips never parting as his hands search for his cloak. They are finally forced to break apart as he spreads the well worn cloth on the ground before laying her back and propping himself up on his elbow beside her. 

Fingers dancing along her skin, Gendry snorted, amusement evident as he looked down at her. “I had to fall for the most stubborn woman in Westeros.”

“Well I fell for the most stubborn man in the world, so I think we’re well matched.”

“Aye, that we are.” Softly, he hummed, seeming to come to a decision. If the lascivious smirk on his face was any indication, she’d probably enjoy whatever it was. “Now, I do believe, we were in the middle of something. And I think it went a little bit like this…” Quick as a snake, he settled over her and brought their lips together, a squeak of unbridled joy escaping Arya as she pressed into him, holding tight and burying herself in the safety of his embrace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So maybe at some point I'll write a full sex scene, but apparently this was not the chapter that was happening in. If you notice any mistakes, grammatically or otherwise, please let me know, I don't have a beta and the words may have all started running together in the end there.


	4. a dragon's victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danaerys Targaryen has taken Kings Landing with blood and fire, but at what cost? A glimpse into the possibly unraveling mind of our conqueror, just after the attempted assassination by Jon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short(ish) disclaimer: Danaerys is unequivocally the villain in this story. She is not getting redeemed. She is a point of view character, because not everything is the fluff and sunshine happening in Gendry and Arya's bubble right now, and this chapter is portraying the unforgiving, unrepentant woman who destroyed quite a lot of Kings Landing without blinking. This is a peek into her thoughts and a general idea of what is going on after the sack while our happy couple is busy finding their way back to one another, as well as a reminder that we, the audience, know a hell of a lot more about certain relationships and characters than they do each other.  
> This isn't to say that I hate Dany, because I do not. I really like her character. However, this story is using many aspects of GOT up through episode 5, so the paranoia and descent into madness of Dany is going to come up and be very important in how the plot plays out. I would like to do a better job than what happened in the show, especially since I'm stretching the aftermath out and not killing her immediately (before any repercussions can catch up or the reality of the situation can hit her), but I know I can't make everyone happy.
> 
> Okay, minor rant over. And hopefully not necessary.
> 
> Hope everyone reading enjoys this update, it is definitely a different headspace than the last chapter. I'm trying to find time to set aside for writing while at school, because I love this story and hope to keep pulling you farther into this universe with me. Can't give any guarantees as to when the next chapter will be out, but hopefully we're looking at a gap of weeks rather than months. The next chapter or two (or three if I get greedy) will be following the Arya/Gendry plotline, but expect future installments from a variety of different characters. 
> 
> As always, I have no beta. Which I probably should work on, because I still suck at tenses.

As Jon Snow is dragged away in chains, Queen Daenerys Targaryen of the Seven Kingdoms remains perched atop the Iron Throne, knuckles still clenched white on the armrests as the adrenaline faded from her system following the attack. Once what was left of the doors to the throne room had been closed, she turned to her loyal servant, the only man left that she trusted. He’d been with her through fire and blood and this godsforsaken war, and had lost nearly as much as she had in this crusade. Yet still Grey Worm stood straight and tense, the trickle of blood at his brow no distraction for her ever faithful Unsullied commander. 

Looking out over Kings Landing, she shivered, not from cold or chill, but from the finality and rightness of reaching her hard-won destiny. The ash was still settling around the city, a gray tinged mockery of the fluffy snow she’d first seen north of Winterfell, with the very man she’d just sent to he Black Cells. Back when he loved her, before he learned who he was, before he allowed those who whispered in his ears to turn him against her. Before Sansa Stark and her thrice damned minions tried to usurp her very birthright once more. Unbidden, a wave of glee overtakes her as she ponders the fast approaching day she will be able to have the red headed bitch on her knees, begging for a queen’s mercy that would never come.

Proper, icy Lady Stark; hers would be a public execution, her head mounted between her cousin’s and Cersei Lannister’s on the walls of Kings Landing, just where she belonged. And Jon would be dead, she wouldn’t even need to make up an excuse now that he’d tried to kill her. A part of her, the lonely little romantic still yearning for the house with the red door and a family to call her own, she was devastated; but the hardened conqueror and queen on the Iron Throne was hungry for blood.

The cripple would be last. He could be easily dealt with later, for he couldn’t defend himself against a child, much less the assassin she would send North in a few years, once she’d established herself as a fair and kind monarch. He’d be allowed to remain the Northern Warden as a sign of the forgiveness of a benevolent ruler for as long as it took the memories of the lords and ladies to be softened, and then she would strike, brutal and true. Perhaps a Faceless Man would do the trick, using the face of one of their own to strike down the last Stark son would be a sweet, sweet revenge on the family who had nearly brought about her ruin. Which only left the Dawn Bringer, wherever she may be.

Now, Arya Stark was an enigma, one Daenaerys would once have happily let into her court simply for the sake of solving her mysteries, but the blood of traitors ran through her veins.  She could never trust the word of a wolf, and she’d heard tales of the massacre at the Twins while in the North, whispers that  _ winter had come _ for the Freys, and it had been merciless. No, she would have to die to wipe the name Stark from the lands of Westeros forever, though Daenerys would grant her a swift and painless death in honor of the salvation she’d won against the dead.

Thinking back, the queen tried to recall more details of the younger Stark sister, but she had been quiet, blending into the shadows around Winterfell, so very different than the friendly, vivacious child Jon Snow had shared memories of on the journey to the northern stronghold. The girl was tiny, just a slip of a thing, and how she had managed to destroy the Night King was still unknown; she hadn’t bragged, hadn’t told a soul of her triumph after she’d been found clutching her dagger in the godswood. Daenerys had seen her a time or two out in the training yards, but never spoken with her. One Stark harpy looking to claw her throat out was more than enough, though mayhaps the girl would have been more apt to accept her as a fellow warrior. But no, if she wasn’t training or overseeing the weapon making in the forge, she was her sister’s constant companion, a far daintier counterpart to the hulking Brienne of Tarth.

She was currently missing though, the source of anguish in Jon Snow’s voice as he’d unsheathed his sword and the reason Sansa Stark had sent countless panicked ravens to the war camp. Not that Snow had received any of those but the last, she’d needed him focused on the battle ahead, not his wayward pup of a sister. Arya Stark was in the wind, had left Winterfell like a ghost in the night, her bed found empty and cold a month ago. Daenerys had a feeling she would return from wherever she had disappeared to, especially once she learned of her siblings’ fates.

Arya Stark would be a dangerous wildcard if left unchecked, but she would be hard-pressed to find a way close enough to strike. The girl may be deadly, but she was only a girl. Daenerys was the queen, an army of Unsullied and Dothraki willing to lay down their lives for her and Drogon waiting to burn any who opposed her. And soon, the loyalty of the remaining Southern lords, starting with the strong and handsome new Lord of Storm’s End. 

A decision made, she beckoned to the only other person in the cavernous Throne Room. “Find me Lord Baratheon and bring him here. I have a feeling we have much to discuss in this new world.” With a curt nod, Grey Worm left her presence, mouth set in a grimace and a furrow in his brow.

Daenerys looked down before her new guards entered, alone for only a few precious moments, finally acknowledging the pinpricks of red all over her hands, marring her pale, pale skin. Wiping the blood along her skirts, she resettled on her throne, ignoring the sharp edges of the swords as they carved their way into her skin. She will not flinch, will not give an inch. Never again.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments below, and please let me know if there's any confusion I can clear up.


	5. the root of the thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quiet contemplation, some flirty flirts, and Arya and Gendry maybe like, actually getting on their way to Storm's End?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, I fluffed and pretty much nothing happens in this chapter. Midterms are almost over, with the exception of my essay exam tomorrow (today?!), which I am procrastinating doing a last round of studying for by finally finishing this one. So really, who's winning now?
> 
> As per usual, this has no beta, and please leave all questions, comments and concerns below, because my face gets a little more red every time there's a message in my inbox.
> 
> And now I'm going to sleep.

Eventually, laying on top of her betrothed under the canopy of the oak, Arya traced the multitude scars that cover Gendry’s chest and arms from a lifetime of work in the forge. Long healed burns, tiny nicks, smooth patches of hairless skin; all told the story of her blacksmith. Her man, her soon to be husband. And that is the thought that makes her grin, a long forgotten discussion making its way to the forefront of her mind.

“My father would have liked you.”

Gendry snorted, still stroking along her side he glanced down at her, complete disbelief on his face. “Oh aye, kind as he seemed when I met him, I hardly expect he was thinking you’d end up here, lying naked on the forest floor with a blacksmith. A bastard blacksmith at that.” Pressing a sweet kiss to her forehead, he sighed. “No love, I don’t think he’d have liked me much at all.”

“That would have been my mother, she’d have had you castrated and fed to the wolves if she found us out here.” She paused, feigning contemplation, before adding, “Although now that you’re a lord, it probably would have been a quick death. A beheading most like-” Now recognizing her teasing for what it was, he dug his fingers into her ribs, behind her knees, under her arms, anywhere he could reach to tickle her. Laughing, she squirmed off of him, rolling to the side as he mercilessly poked and prodded at all the spots only he had been close enough to know, the ones that made her gasp for breath with a smile on her face, made her giggle like a child again hiding from her brothers. Gendry was grinning down at her as he held her shaking body to him, so different and yet so similar to how they’d been embracing just a few minutes ago. Left without any other options, Arya finally cried out in surrender, panting like a dog in heat as she playfully pushed his smug face away from her neck where it had landed as he collapsed on top of her. 

Seemingly pleased with himself and her rather graceless acquiescence, he moved away from her, reclining on the leafy ground again instead of hovering over her. A few of his fingers tousled through her hair as he said, “You don’t have to be so cheerful about it, you know. My inevitable death had your parents ever found us like this.” 

Ignoring him, adorable as his grumbles were, she settled herself on his arm before continuing much more quietly, “She was the one always trying to turn me into a proper lady like Sansa, while Father indulged me, let me learn to wield a sword.” A long ago pang in her heart throbbed for a moment, the need for comfort leading her to snuggle into his chest once more. “He’s the one who found Syrio for me.”

“Still don’t explain why in the seven hells you think he’d like me, especially after I've been fucking his daughter out in the woods.” 

“Pretty sure he’d have been more livid about the storeroom or maybe the forge to be honest, least out here there’s far less chance of anyone walking in.” She smiled and caressed his face, “He’d have liked you for how much you love me, that you don’t mind the fact that I’m just as likely to run off into the woods as I am to fight beside you in battle, nevermind that I’ll never be a proper lady who’d be content to embroider tapestries and speak only when spoken to.”

“If I’m going to war, there’s no place I’d rather have you be than by my side, I promise you that. Not that I could stop you even if I tried, my lady the Dawn Bringer.” 

Eyes rolling, she muttered, “Oh, be quiet,” into his chest, and could feel the heat rushing to her cheeks at the affection and reverence pouring from his every word. Gendry alone had the ability to turn her into this squirming, blushing girl, but she knew he’d never take it for granted. They loved each other too much for that. She leaned in and kissed him briefly, a brush of lips that said more than a thousand ravens ever could.

Nuzzling into her hand, his gaze roamed down her body, a playful look in his eyes once more. “‘Course, I can think of much more fun places to be by my side than a battlefield. Like this forest.”

“Or your forge. Or that hallway. Or the grain store. Or…” Arya would have continued listing all the corners and private crevices of her childhood home they’d managed to discover together, but the hand covering her mouth got a bit in the way of that. Unamused eyebrow quirked, she waited for whatever it was that was so important he’d felt the need to interrupt her.

Sheepishly, he removed the offending appendage before she was forced to resort to violence and moved it to stroke up and down her neck.“At some point we may want to actually find a room with a real featherbed to fuck in. Never exactly had one myself, but I hear they’re far softer than sacks of grain in a storeroom or that lousy excuse for a cot in the forge.”

“Because you were complaining so much at the time?” She paused, fondly remembering those passion filled days in the aftermath of the Long Night. “And it’s not as if we made it to the lumpy little thing half the time. I think my arse still has bruises from that one time on your workbench.”

“I was rather under the impression I was dreaming, again, so no, I wasn’t gonna complain about getting to have you in my arms before the battle, or any of those times afterwards for that matter.” Adjusting himself slightly, a smirking Gendry leaned in, breath hot against her ear, “And you loved every second of it.” 

A shiver seemed to take over Arya’s entire body at the promise and passion in those words. This was the man she’d agreed to spend the rest of her life with, her mate and equal in all things, and she would never regret that decision. No one else could understand her the way he did, not that she’d truly let anyone try, not even Sansa once they’d found each other again. Gendry had seen her in some of the worst times of her life, and when she’d willingly told him of the others, he hadn’t judged her. He was good and kind, and simply loved her for all her unladylike qualities, rather than despite them. 

And she loved him. She loved Gendry for his stubbornness that almost got him killed, for his grumpiness towards everyone except the grubby little girl she used to be. She loved him for his pride in his blacksmithing, for the strength of his arms and his convictions. She loved him for the look on his face every time she twirled a weapon he made, whether it was her beautiful spear or merely those dragonglass daggers in Winterfell. She loved him for so many reasons, some large and soul encompassing, some small and nearly overlooked. Arry the orphan girl loved Gendry the bastard boy just as Arya Stark loved Gendry Baratheon, and she was going to marry him.

While she’d been content to stare like a soppy idiot at him, Gendry had apparently grown tired of waiting for her to respond to his teasing and taken it upon himself to get a reaction out of his she wolf. With the way he’s biting and sucking under her jaw, Arya’d be surprised if her entire neck isn’t patterned with bruises tomorrow. And while normally she’d somewhat approve of his marking her as his (so long as she was allowed to return the favor), they did need to seem like a responsible lord and his betrothed once they reached Storm’s End. Being covered in a week’s worth of love bites probably wouldn’t help much, so loathe as she is to stop him, she pushes him away from her skin and huffs a soft laugh at the pout on his face.

Pecking his lips lightly, she pulled away from his heat and pressed a finger to his lips when he started to protest. “No more funny business. We need to sleep so we can start out again at dawn. It should take about a week to get to Storm’s End from here, maybe a bit more if we don’t keep to the roads.”

“But…” His big blue eyes were almost enough to change her mind, but the ache beginning to spread all along her spine kept her firm, amused as she was. Turning over, she beckoned him to curl behind her, lacing their fingers in order to situate his arms around her as his warmth soothed her back. Tucked under his chin, Arya smiled as she closed her eyes. 

“Go to sleep, you silly man. I’ll be here when you wake up.”


	6. journey's end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a short but sweet break from the game of thrones, Arya and Gendry are forced to re-enter reality as they approach Storm's End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, an update! With like, plot and everything! Quick, someone check for flying pigs!
> 
> Happy Halloween! I'm going to go watch Clue for the millionth time, eat by Ben & Jerry's, enjoy my bottle of wine, and try not to stress about my job interview tomorrow. 
> 
> I always appreciate hearing what you think, so please let me know down in the comments below.

After six days of hard travel and five nights of tenderness, the drum tower of Storm’s End was in sight. Once Arya and Gendry had decided they couldn’t risk returning to the capital without any idea as to the reception that would await them, they’d been careful to stay just off the King’s Road, in case the Dragon Queen sent soldiers in this direction, but thus far they’d seen no one but each other in the dense woods. 

Arya was sure no one truly knew where she was, as the only person, aside from the man beside her, who’d known for sure she’d even been inside the walls of King’s Landing when the dragon started its destructive path was the Hound. And she was quite sure he’d died in the flames behind them, hopefully after he’d destroyed whatever was left of his brother. If he hadn’t, well, he’d probably swear himself blue in the face before admitting he was happy she’d made it out in one piece. Not that the Hound would say as such in those words, but Arya had learned to read between the gruff and profanity filled lines.

On the other hand, Gendry was becoming increasingly nervous about the possibility of the Unsullied following them to bring him back to face the queen. He’d left the armies before dawn the morning of the attack, at Jon Snow’s command. Ser Davos had been the one to realize just how intensely Gendry did not want to be a part of the sack of the place he once called home, and had apparently convinced Snow to send him farther South in an attempt to begin calming the Stormlands. The queen would most likely be livid that he’d sat out the battle, but he was planning on playing ignorant and telling her he was simply following the orders of her commander. That he knew Jon Snow had lost her favor somewhere north of the Neck would remain unsaid.

When he’d told Arya that, she’d laughed and told him he wasn’t as stupid as he used to be. That he considered that statement to be a compliment probably said much about their relationship. 

Just before they broke through the last of the trees, Gendry pulled his horse to a full stop. He sits as still as can be in the saddle, fingers white as he clenches the reins. The sounds of the forest faded away, his vision tunneled until all he could see were the faintly waving flags in the distance, black with hints of yellow that would presumably flesh out into stags once they were closer. He didn’t notice he’d stopped breathing until Arya pressed a concerned hand to his thigh, shocking him of whatever trance he’d gone into. Gulping in air, Gendry folded over in the saddle, head in his hands as he tried to comprehend the mess he’d managed to place himself in the middle of. 

Seeing the castle that generations of Baratheons had called home was almost as intimidating as the first time he saw Winterfell, and if Arya weren’t riding next to him, Gendry was rather sure he’d have fallen off his horse completely from sheer nerves. But she was beside him, a soft smile on her face every time he looked at her for reassurance. He was truly going to do this then, he was going to ride through the gates of that bloody fortress and declare it his by bloodright, based entirely on the fact that some old, fat king had once fucked his mother.

There was something wrong with him, of that he was sure. 

While Gendry was attempting to regain any sense of calm, Arya had apparently grown tired of his silence and climbed down from her white mare, only to startle him when she gripped his arm in order to hoist herself up onto his saddle, backwards and straddled across his lap. Arms around his neck, her steadfast gaze pierced his own, curiosity evident from the raised eyebrow and pursed lips she was sporting. His attempt at a smile was undoubtedly lackluster, seeing as that curiosity turned to concerned as soon as he moved the muscles of his mouth. 

Her fingers began to massage along the nape of his neck, causing him to fall forward bonelessly and rest his forehead against hers as his arms found purchase tight around her waist. The tension melted out of his shoulders as he simply let himself hold her and wish they were the only two people in the world who mattered. For a few moments, they could pretend that they might not accidentally inflame the less than stable temper of a queen known for her fiery retribution on her enemies; that Arya’s brother had been leading his men somewhere in the carnage of King’s Landing, and they knew of neither his true allegiances nor his physical well-being; that they were about to enter potentially hostile environment with nothing but each other, her Needle, and his warhammer. He could just be a man holding the woman he loved.

But he wasn’t just a man, and she wasn’t just the woman he loved. He was Gendry Baratheon, no mere blacksmith, but the new Lord of Storm’s End, and she was Arya Stark, Bringer of the Dawn, she who killed Death himself. They couldn’t stay here forever. Pulling himself back together into a state that could generously be considered normal, Gendry bent his neck and kissed her slowly, thoroughly, before forcing himself to disengage and settle for bumping her nose with his in thanks. 

Arya smiled, the soft, tender look he’d only seen a few times, each more precious than the last. It wasn’t the same as the toothy grin she wore as a girl, happily talking about growing up with her siblings. It wasn’t the same as the bloodthirsty snarl he’d seen amidst a fight, nor was it the tightlipped grimace that appeared whenever Daenerys Targaryen was mentioned. No, Gendry knows he is the only one that can put that glowing, content expression on her face, and he’s never been prouder of any weapon from his anvil.

He was so incredibly glad the gods had seen fit to grant him the chance to know and love this incredible woman. Rubbing along her cheekbone, all he can do is breathe a quiet “Thank you.”

“What for?” Her honest confusion makes him chuckle, finally allowing some genuine amusement and warmth to pierce his sullen mood.

“For coming with me. For being you. For surviving. Take your pick.”

“Silly bull, there’s no place I’d rather be. You are mine as I am yours, isn’t that what we agreed upon?”

“Aye. I am yours as you are mine, milady.” Another small kiss, then she maneuvered herself carefully around, facing the reins as she reclined against his chest. Confused, he motioned to her mare, but she shrugged and grabbed the reins from him, leading his horse over to hers. Arya merely leaned half off the saddle to grab the white horse’s lead, trusting he wouldn’t let her fall, then looped and knotted the ropes to a nearby tree, promising the mare they’d send someone back for her soon. 

Once everything was in place, she twisted back to flash him a mischievous smirk. “Shall we go find that featherbed you promised me?”

“If we must.” 

“Oh, we must. I seem to remember certain discussions were had about what we would be doing in that mighty bed in your grand old castle.” Without warning, Arya kicked her heels back and they took off, his arms tight around her waist as she let out an exhilarated laugh, heading down the final path to Storm’s End before he could talk himself out of it once more.

As they neared the gates, Arya shifted the reins to his less than confident hands, freeing her own in case of trouble and giving him at least the appearance of being in charge. Once they made it close enough, he looked around for a guard or sentry, someone to talk to. At first glance, there was no one, but Arya tilted his chin upwards, and he caught a glimpse of steel in a cleverly disguised gap high in the wall. A quick glance down at her told him he would need to announce himself, she couldn’t make this claim for him. He waited another moment for the hidden man to speak, but when only silence came, he made himself known.

Using the loudest and most commanding voice he could muster while half sure he was going to faint, he bellowed, “In the name of Lord Gendry Baratheon, legitimized son of Robert Baratheon, I ask that you open these gates.” A pause, then the mechanisms behind the stone and wood began to whir as the gates slowly creaked open.

Muttering so only he could hear her, Arya chastised him, “Technically speaking, as their lord, I’m relatively certain that’s more of an order than a request.”

“I’m not their lord yet. Besides, I wouldn’t have reacted well if some fop showed up and started making demands with no authority to do so.” She patted his cheek like he was a small child as she laughed quietly, which Gendry probably should have been offended by, but he lived for her small affections and would take her touch however she gave it to him.

“This is why I said you’d make a wonderful lord.”

Rolling his eyes, he mumbled, “Aye, love,” into her hair.

Which of course prompted her to pinch his arm where it rested around her waist. “Oh, be quiet and look intimidating.”

“Yes, dear.” Smugly, he pressed a last kiss to the back of her head before straightening up and affecting the blank look of authority he’d seen so often on highborns.

Lined up in the yard were presumably the main servants and soldiers of the castle, who looked to be a rather ragged bunch for the most part. The men were either much older than him, or barely out of boyhood, and while the women seemed to have a wider range of ages, all had a look of caution in their eyes. The few guards were tense, not very subtly blocking most of the more defenseless occupants from Gendry’s view. 

Halting in the center of the cleared space, Gendry paused to take in the scene before them, then swung off the horse as gracefully as he could, reaching back up for Arya. She huffed and made a face of annoyance only he would pick up on, but allowed him the chance to assist her, unneeded though it may have been. Her hand immediately went to Needle once she was on the ground, and she remained a half step behind him, covering his back should this go very poorly.

Turning his attention to the group in front of him, Gendry picked out the older man, probably of age with Ser Davos, dressed a bit better than the others and approached him, assuming he must hold some sort of position within these walls. Opening his mouth to speak, Gendry was taken aback by the sudden movement of his deep bow, a motion echoed by the people surrounding him, until everyone in the yard save Arya was bent over, heads turned to the ground.

Standing there, it dawned on Gendry that these were his people now, his responsibility. If he wanted to do right by them, he needed to start by doing better than his predecessors. And so he strode forward, stopping in front of the lead man, crouching down to extend a hand towards him and help him back up. “Rise, good ser, and tell me of yourself. Tell me what I need to know of these lands.”

Seemingly stunned by the unconventional nature of the man in front of him, it took the gray-haired gentleman a moment to find his voice, though it was difficult to stop him once he’d started. “Lord Baratheon, we’ve been expecting you for some weeks now. I am the castellan here, Ser Farring. I’ve been serving the Baratheon family nearly my whole life, why I knew your father when he was a boy. No doubt who you are boy! Gods, you do look just like Robert, don’t you?” One bushy eyebrow raised as he briefly glanced at Arya again, wry smile appearing on his face. “Even appear to have his appetites too. Ha!” The man blinked, suddenly studying her much closer, trying to piece together precisely who was in front of him. “And who is this?”

Gendry reached back, kissing her hand once it was placed in his own. “Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, my betrothed.”

Another quick, darting look between the pair and he paled dramatically, mumbling under his breath about ghosts come back to haunt him. Abruptly turning around, he beckoned to them over his shoulder, indicating they should follow him into the main keep.

“That went… well?” he ventured, unsure how exactly to take his introduction to the castle. Judging by the mirth in her expression, he should be safe from any immediate violence from the Stormlanders. If the first impression was anything to go by, then maybe this wouldn’t be quite so bad after all.

“It definitely could have gone worse, but let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.” Clasping his left hand in her right, she motioned at the now ajar doors. “After you, Lord Baratheon.”

“No,” he said, bringing her to stand next to him, half of a pair. “We do this together.”


End file.
